It creeps forward, looming over me, drowning me in shadow.
It whispers in my ear, almost like a lover.
Whispers become words.
Words to a shout.
Shout to a scream.
Long and drawn out, determined to be heard.
It has many names. Many paths, in all directions.
Some think it calls to you, like a siren.
Others think it pulls you in, like the undertow.
They're all wrong.
It stays put in its black swirling clouds.
People send, push, or pull you to it.
Like sacrifices.
Only you come out....
Different.
It has many names.
Most call it "The Future."
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Author:
Melody Pond (
Offline) - Published: December 16th, 2017 01:06
- Comment from author about the poem: I was in my senior year of high school and had no idea what to major in in college. And everyone around me did. So this came to me one day when I was stressing about it.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
Offline)
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